


Quasi Una Fantasia

by leepala



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, james + piano tru otp, morning domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 12:25:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7934530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leepala/pseuds/leepala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor "Quasi una fantasia", Op. 27, No. 2, popularly known as the Moonlight Sonata, by Ludwig van Beethoven</p>
<p>James is seated at the upright piano, and he’d dressed in ratty jeans and a tee but his hair is still tousled from sleep. There’s a mug and a half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray sitting on top of the piano, and the thin line of smoke hazes the morning sunlight coming in from the garden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quasi Una Fantasia

Jeremy’s always slow to wake. He’s not built for mornings. Though it’s a rarity for him to get the pleasure of waking up naturally - usually he’s jolted awake at some ungodly hour by an alarm clock, or telephone call, or some other annoyance. But today he wakes slow and lazy, hefting a sigh as he rolls over to press his face into the pillow beneath his head.

It takes him a good ten minutes to remember he’s not in his own flat. Entirely too tidy, he observes, once his eyes are partially open. Not unfamiliar, though. He’s spent a fair amount of time in James’ bedroom the last few months, he just hadn’t stayed in it long enough to wake up in the morning.

If he stopped to think about it, he would be faintly unnerved by how natural it feels to do so.

He stretches languidly, pushing himself up to sit. He’s alone in the room, but the door is open and it smells faintly of coffee and old cigarette smoke and there’s quiet music from the other room, so Jeremy’s sure he’s not by himself. He’s not in a rush though - pulls on boxers and steals James’ horrid plaid flannel robe, which is too short on him. Brushes his teeth, takes a look at his hair in the mirror and decides it’s not at all worth the effort to try and comb it.

As he pads down the hallway, he realizes that the music he’s hearing is the piano. He’s quiet as he peers into the room, not keen to startle James off of it. James doesn’t play frequently, not with any seriousness outside of little ditties at the bar.

James is seated at the upright piano, and he’d dressed in ratty jeans and a tee but his hair is still tousled from sleep. There’s a mug and a half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray sitting on top of the piano, and the thin line of smoke hazes the morning sunlight coming in from the garden. Jeremy recognizes the song - Moonlight Sonata, Beethoven.

He had heard the song before, of course, but hadn’t known much of the background until recently. James has had a tendency to wax poetic over the story - it’s in at least one of his books, as well as a few of his radio programs. Which, of course, means Jeremy has become familiar with the tale, as he has an embarrassing habit of consuming every bit of media James produces.

It’s a story of longing, the rhythmic repetition of the chords spelling out the feeling of need and unrequited ache. Love, the kind that makes you burn slowly from the inside out, makes you bite the inside of your cheek bloody to keep your heart from spilling out between your lips. James makes the music sound completely effortless, long fingers flowing easily over the keys. He’s hunched slightly, leaning into each rolling chord. A deep breath flexes his shoulders, and it looks as though he could pull the desire out of the piano without ever touching the ivory.

Jeremy watches, and there’s something deep in the pit of his stomach cracking open and filling him up with the sweetest kind of ache.

James shifts his weight, the song shifting key up into major for a bright moment, before settling back into uneasy, unrequited minor. It’s enough to bring Jeremy back to the here and now, and he’s halfway across the living room before he’s realized he’s moved. Sure enough, as soon as Jeremy’s hands brush across James’ shoulders he stops, and there’s a faint embarrassment on his features when he glances up at Jeremy. But he must find something he wasn’t expecting in Jeremy’s expression - he quirks a brow, faint curiosity. Jeremy’s no good with words before he’s had a coffee, and honestly, he’s not even sure he knows what he wants to say yet. So instead he bends in to kiss him, doesn’t give a single damn about the odd angle or the taste of stale cigarette on James’ lips.

Maybe he manages to push a little bit of that roil of emotions in his stomach into the kiss, because James lingers over it, huffs a small and contented sound into the air between them. “Come on,” James says, standing, catching lightly at Jeremy’s hand as he heads toward the kitchen. “Coffee’s probably gone stale by now.” But Jeremy’s watching his hand and James’ fingers and still listening to memory echo of those repeated, longing chords.


End file.
